


(BONUS CONTENT) Excerpt from a Kingdom far, far away...

by Pyukumukus



Series: Fic Graveyard [1]
Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/F, High Fantasy, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26237902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyukumukus/pseuds/Pyukumukus
Summary: Inquisitor Ange has been dispatched by the Ecclesiastical Court to perform an execution.It was rare to find fantasy among the lands of anti-fantasy and rarer still to witness an incomplete hunt. The witch lay in wait for her last rites, bound in shackles and cursed by heaven and hell. The Golden and Endless witch would meet her demise. To exorcise the wicked been a solemn oath Ange had sworn, her last promise to a brother who had left her behind.--This is an unfinished, multi chapter fic I was working on years ago to fulfill my mighty need for a high-fantasy AU centered around Beatrice's relationship with Ange. I have decided to release the third chapter as a thank you present to all of my readers.
Relationships: Beatrice the Golden Witch/Ushiromiya Ange
Series: Fic Graveyard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905829
Kudos: 3





	(BONUS CONTENT) Excerpt from a Kingdom far, far away...

**Author's Note:**

> CONTEXT: Ange and Beatrice are traveling together to find Battler, Ange's elder brother and fellow inquisitor, who has been missing for six years. While Beatrice is seeking his sword, Ange finds herself torn between her duty and the feelings she develops for the witch.

The witch sat and stared at the reflection between her bare feet. The still-water pond had withered to a murky puddle in the August drought, but Beatrice was tired of walking and the heat of the day made her feel sick all over. She dipped a bare toe in the sunkissed water, still more cool than the oppressive heat.

It was Ange who offered to stop, but the girl’s mouth twitched with irritation as she spoke. Beatrice’s traveling companion-- her captor-- hadn’t said it, but Ange’s behavior had already suggested she thought of the witch as nothing more than an upper-class burden. A Lady’s procession stopped often, but the quest of an inquisitor proceeded without much concern paid to the very important person. 

Ange was usually restless. When they weren’t walking, she romped through the forest so that branches cracked under her boots. Ange was usually light-footed-- like a little red cat with a cat’s temper too; if you so happened to ruffle her wrong, she would spit and hiss until she had time to stave off her dark mood. 

_ Don’t scratch me, okaaaay? I’ll hex you or roast your bones or declaw you. _

Threats were nothing but hollow jokes without magic, so Beatrice laughed because she was truly a person to be pitied. Alone in the woods, she had no company save for herself and her dark thoughts. Ange had set off on her own after they stopped, and Beatrice tried not to mind-- the little Inquisitor was bad company.

The witch was desperate to take off the bodice around her waist. Even if it were loose and made of worn leather, her cotton undershirt was plastered to the skin underneath it. She didn’t dare pause to smell herself. Rather, Beatrice quietly disrobed and set about running cool water over her arms and legs with a little kerchief Ange had given her. 

“I would really like some privacy,” Beatrice said to the inquisitor, although she didn’t know why, for she had never before minded nudity. 

“I’m not interested in anything you have to offer, so by all means go ahead.” Ange waved off her concern with a gloved hand. Even when sweat poured down her face, the little inquisitor wore layers of leather padding for no purpose but to ward off threats which would never come. 

No matter when and where they were walking, Ange dressed herself up. It was sort of like a costume-- she was playing at knights. Beatrice had spent long hours watching the Ushiromiya children whack each other with wooden swords. She didn’t see how this was any different.

Did Ange also feel vulnerable without her clothing? Beatrice was doubtful; she had spied Ange bathing before, careless as to who saw her and certainly not concerned with what the witch thought of her body. It wasn't that Beatrice cared, anyway. From the few glimpses the witch had stolen, she knew she wouldn't be interested in the body of a thin, boyish girl. 

Beatrice thought she was the antithesis of Ange. The  _ Ange-tihesis _ (she cackled at that). Perhaps it was because they were so different that Beatrice chose to hide herself while Ange put herself on display.

_ No, she’s only being nude. Naked bodies are nothing to be ashamed of.  _

  
The witch stared at her reflection, watching her lips curl into a smile.

_ Oh, I really don’t like looking at myself _ . 

_ Oh, oh…. _

_ I hate this. I really don’t like this. _

Her hands tightened around her forearms. 

_ What has beauty even earned me besides a beautiful prison…? _

Ange found her by the edge of the pond lost in misery. The witch’s long, blonde hair was dark gold and hung heavy with water. She smiled at Ange and received a stony frown in response.

“Have you ever skipped rocks before?” Ange asked. 

“Huh?”

Ange’s face was obscured by the halo of sun around her scarlet hair. Because it was mostly lost in shadow, Beatrice could hardly make out her expression. She had to squint against the light to see her. 

The inquisitor sighed. “You’ve heard of it before, right?” Ange’s tone was chastising, but for some reason, the witch didn’t mind. “Well, whatever. You’re such a princess, I thought…” 

“Hoh,” Beatrice looked at her with a light smile. Of course she had skipped rocks before-- but the memory was fuzzy, and it barely tickled the edges of her mind’s eye when she thought about it. The mind was not meant for one hundred life times, even if one had surpassed the existence of humans. 

“D-don’t look at me like that!” When Ange snapped, she went red all over. “If you want to call me a dumbass, just do it.”

Beatrice chuckled to herself. After all this time, Ange was still a child, wasn’t she? The witch decided to lend the young woman some sympathy. She couldn’t remember how she felt at that age, at the cusp of adulthood when her eyes shone bright and youthful. 

Beatrice could try. The impression of childhood was barely reminiscent, a scattered dream from a life-long past, an age of magic and wonder. Its splendor would forever be lost to the inquisitor, whose convictions commanded her to ruthlessly destroy the fantasy realm of which Beatrice was the sole survivor, the final Golden Witch. This child of man could never understand the depth of her pain, but Beatrice easily understood Ange’s burden, the root of her suffering. It was easy to pity mortals, but who was left that would pity a witch?

One man stood out among the few, a hero that could rival the supernatural. Beatrice and the inquistory, Ange, had set out on this quest to seek him, the final answer to their source of anguish. 

  
For this reason, Beatrice was able to set aside her woes and allow her lips to curve into an outrageous scowl.

“Of course not,” Beatrice said with an air of arrogance. She turned up her nose, looking away from Ange. “I am the paragon of a lady. My grace and poise have been groomed to perfection during my thousand years spent as a--”

She felt a stone shoved roughly into one hand. It was hot and smooth and flat. 

Beatrice looked up at Ange, who was peering at her from behind a twisted pout. From the way the girl clenched her fist, Beatrice could tell she had wounded the girl’s pride with her act. Ange’s shame only earned her a vicious cackle from the mouth of the witch, laughter which threatened to push her over the edge. When it seemed that tears would soon collect in her eyes, Beatrice placed a hand on her wrist and squeezed it gently. 

“You should teach me,” she said, and so began the very, very slow and arduous process of becoming friends with the little inquisitor. 

* * *

The night brought many changes to their dynamic. Beatrice had been a fool to not suspect the inevitable tragedy that would befall them both.

The air was thick with humidity. Fog had settled over the forest, coating the witch’s body with a thin layer of mist. Her leather bedroll was tolerable against the sandy banks of the pond’s shore, unlike the miserable stiffness of the forest floor. Beatrice felt herself drifting off to sleep when she heard rustling beside her. She awoke with a start, clutching her heart and sitting up straight-- only to find herself inches from Ange’s face. The girl peered at her through the darkness, her blue eyes shining in the moonlight with sudden emotion. Beatrice wasn’t able to parse the girl’s expression before the young inquisitor stuttered, “C-can I kiss you?”

Beatrice stared at Ange, who looked back at her with the most shamed expression Beatrice had ever known. It was an expression caught between disgust and fear, desire and perhaps some other feeling that was too human for a witch to understand.  _ Youthful ignorance _ . The thought came to Beatrice suddenly, as if whispered into her ear, a ghost of a long forgotten memory.

She wondered who she shared her first kiss with-- but all kisses seemed to have been blotted out by Kinzo’s mouth. 

Swallowing her disgust, the witch smiled. “ _ Meeee _ ?” It was difficult not to tease her. The request was so childish, after all. It was, perhaps, that it was a request which made Beatrice’s heart turn to slush in her chest.  _ When was the last time--  _ To ask and not to order. To request and not to....

“It’s not like you can’t say no,” Ange stammered. “I just thought... I mean.” Her eyes went downcast.  _ How girlish _ . “You told me about the maid, and I--”

“The maid?” Beatrice didn’t know what to say. 

“Shannon.” The name was wrenched from her lips with force. Beatrice blinked. She hadn’t spoken of Shannon. Unless she…  _ A drunk confession, hmmm? Can you only admit to your sins by the side of a bottle? Pathetic. _ “You said you… You had  _ relations _ , right?”

Beatrice answered quickly, too quickly. “It was a misplaced affection, yes.” 

Ange’s eyes went downcast. They seemed to lose their color. “O-oh… misplaced.” The echo was rich with despair. Beatrice tried to soothe her own expression to calm the girl down.

“I’m just puzzled as to why you’d want to, that’s all,” Beatrice said. 

Ange started playing in the sand. She drew circles with her fingers as she worked up a response, watching as she made swirls big and small. The girl opened her mouth several times, and each time she choked on her words. Beatrice watched her, expectant. She was beginning to lose her patience when Ange spoke in a small voice, “I thought maybe you were like me.”

The witch could only blink. “ _ What? _ ” she asked, emphatically. 

The inquisitor spoke into the river bank without looking at Beatrice, as if she were addressing the ground beneath her hands and knees. Her back was rigid, and Beatrice wondered if she had shifted into a position of prayer. Automatically. _Press your forehead to the ground and repent… is that it?_

Beatrice understood. 

The revelation was so immediate that she made a little noise. It was guttural, and so strange Ange had to glance up. The girl was so afraid, Beatrice had to speak hurriedly lest she assumed the worst. 

“I’ll kiss you, Ange,” Beatrice said. _ I’m like you _ . That would be a lie; she and Ange weren’t alike. It would be a stretch to make a comparison between a witch and a girl. What Ange spoke of was of little significance in the eyes of the supernatural. It was as if she were asking Beatrice if she too wrote with her right hand. 

_ You’re insufferably human, _ was what Beatrice thought to herself as Ange drew ragged breaths.  _ The maid was better company. You can’t exactly warm my bed if we don’t have one. _ Nasty, mean things met her tongue each time she looked down to watch Ange crawl towards her with a bowed head. Men had prostrated themselves before Beatrice, the Endless and Golden Witch, but this display was deplorable.  _ Really, for someone who tote’s a knight’s banner and claims she will slay witches-- _

When Ange’s hand met her thigh, the witch froze. 

_ You didn’t refuse her because you have no right to, fuuurniture!  _ Ange’s looked up at her, apologetic. She waited for Beatrice to respond, but because the witch could not, she proceeded.  _ You’ll never be more than a plaything for these one-winged eagles. Ruined. Ruined.  _ Ange was tangling herself in Beatrice’s dress. She reached for her shoulders in an ungainly way, climbing her body like a drunken spider. Perhaps it was because she was so slow that the moment was agonizing for Beatrice.  _ Are you really so afraid? At the height of your power you would incinerate her on the spot. _ Ange peered at Beatrice. Her face was as red as her hair. 

“Are you okay?” Ange asked. Beatrice’s reply was ugly. It was a nothing sound, a  _ guh _ . “You’re not…” Ange chewed her lip. She was suddenly so demure. It was as if she had nothing but reverence for Beatrice, the witch she had scorned since she was barely twelve years old. “You’re not grossed out, are you?”

“ _ Grossed out? _ ” The response was forced.  _ Ah, nothing but repetition. I’m a poor excuse for a conversationalist  _ and _ a witch. _ “No, I’m not ‘grossed out’.”

Ange’s eyes flitted to the ground-- no, to the swell of Beatrice’s bosom. The girl looked like she was going to pass out.

“You’re very beautiful,” was all Ange said. 

“Ah.” The witch didn’t know how she should respond. “The things you say to me... I never expect them.”

When Ange laughed, it was as if a sheet of ice had been broken. She didn’t laugh long or hard-- she gave a few giggles and then put a hand over her mouth to stifle the snorting fits she often got into. Beatrice watched from where she leaned back in the grass. It was something authentically Ange, she thought. She was beginning to be charmed by this rough, brutish girl. 

Beatrice smiled. “You can be endearing.”

“A-a-are you calling me cute?” Ange sputtered. Now that Beatrice had smoothed over her graceless attempts at flirtations, Ange seemed to have melted into a maiden. She even twirled a strand of hair around her fingers.  _ Totally transformed. _ Beatrice thought.  _ Who are you? _

Beatrice grunted. “Something like that.” Her elbows dug beneath her in the grass to prop herself up. Ange was still crouching on the fabric pooled between the witch’s legs. It was an indecent position, like two peasants pawing at each other in the dirt…  _ Am I really the type of woman to care so much about preserving my reputation? It has already been dragged through the mud. Who will praise my name save for this girl?  _

  
  


“Ange, come here,” Beatrice said. 

Ange obeyed. She ambled towards Beatrice with her lips pressed firmly together and her eyes closed. The witch could laugh, but she held back mockery to spare the girl a witch’s scorn towards human sexuality .  _ This could be fun _ , Beatrice told herself. It had been long since she had any fun, and the grasping fingers of this little girl were no more threatening than the legs of a fly. 

  
Why did Ange’s palm closing around her thigh make Beatrice’s stomach churn? The witch’s head was swimming. She swallowed against her dry throat and gave a quiet laugh at her own expense. 

“Ohoh, yes, exactly like that,” Beatrice murmured in encouragement. There was a look of wonderment in Ange’s eyes. Beatrice had forgotten what that looked like.  _ Wonderment _ . It was the expression of someone who could choose, of someone who was not furniture.  _ And yet, you choose this… _

_ I’m a kept woman, Ange.  _

Ange was really so infuriating. Her procession was painfully slow. Beatrice clicked her nails against the smooth stones of the river bank. Even after all this, they had not been torn-- they had only been bitten short and blunt.

“Is this still ok?” The inquisitor asked. Beatrice could feel Ange’s words against her lip. The girl was so close. _ Her breath smells pretty bad _ , that was the witch’s first thought. Her second thought was about Ange’s deep, blue eyes. Beatrice had never noticed the flecks of grey and green that muddled the color of her irises into a stormy sea.  _ They're so much like his, funny... _

When Beatrice kissed Ange, she felt a tinge of guilt.  _ Misplaced affections _ , she mused,  _ that's all this is.  _

_ I'm sorry, Ange, but I am a sinful witch and you are only a human.  _

The inquisitor’s lips were clumsy against the witch’s mouth.  _ My fire and ice girl. _ If she were not being frosty, Ange burned as red as her hair. Her skin was hot against Beatrice, but all of the girl’s embers seemed to be extinguished; Ange’s kiss was soft and as dry as kissing paper. There was no passion, no hunger, and Beatrice was left to wonder what had extinguished the light inside her former enemy. 

Ange’s eyes were still open, but the witch found no fervor there. Instead, Ange was lukewarm, and Beatrice was disappointed. 

_ What declawed you, kitty cat? Surely not my tits. _

“I’m sorry,” Ange said. “I really-- uh. I’ve really never…” She trailed off, so Beatrice answered in her place. 

“This is your first time with a woman,” Beatrice said. She had been chewing on the accusation for some time, but she was curious to see how far this would go. It was really a question she didn’t dare to ask because Ange was so skittish. She held onto her words because there was a chance Ange would dart into the bushes as suddenly as she came. 

“Sort of…” Ange trailed off, looking askance. 

“And you like women,” Beatrice replied. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but the question was still intended to be probing. 

Ange went silent. She even turned her head, refusing to look Beatrice in the eye. The witch was surprised to see that the little girl clung to her arm and that she now rested her cheek against Beatrice’s shoulder. 

“Only women,” Beatrice finished. 

Ange didn’t answer. 

“Is that really so terrible…?” Beatrice asked.

“Yes.” Ange whisper was slow, quiet, and painful. 

Beatrice was stunned. Her tongue felt sticky in her mouth, heavy. She didn’t know what to say.

There was a long period of silence interrupted only by the croaking of frogs. Beatrice thought she would wake up the next morning only to find herself bitten up by bugs, but then she remembered, with bitter humor, she would be sleeping on the leather bedroll beneath the stars regardless. Beatrice welcomed the warmth of Ange against her body. While the days were hot, the night air was cool. A chill set into her old bones, and Beatrice thought to embrace Ange, who trembled quietly above her. The motion was awkward-- the witch had never been good at comforting, only at making people squirm. 

She did make Ange squirm, but not lasciviously as the witch had once intended. Rather, Ange had been crying and now she twisted in Beatrice’s arms and almost dared to look at her. Ange understood the display was shameful, and a woman such as Beatrice had no patience for her dumb, girlish insecurities. With ire, the witch petted her back and wondered why mortals were so fragile. 

Idiot _,_ _practice on a pillow or one of those straw dummies you run through with arrows._

“When you look at me like that,” Beatrice found herself saying, without intention. “It reminds me very much of her.”

“Shannon,” Ange repeated the girl’s name. Beatrice swallowed.  _ Please, speak no more of her. _ “You loved her.”

_ I didn’t. I couldn’t have. Hah. My cold, golden heart does not beat for anyone but a single man, my precious liar.  _

_ I did not care for her. I used her for firewood under my pyre. You don’t understand, I am a witch and she was a human. Too human for me, you seeee? _

“I loved her,” Beatrice lied. “Very much.”

Ange didn't care that her words were hollow-- because Ange was only a girl, and girls clung to the fantasy of romance. When Ange spoke of love, her eyes shone with that disgusting glint of hope that furniture could never know. It was mocking, she thought, but Beatrice was a good liar.

She gave Ange a dangerous leer. If grass was to dirt as a sheet was to bed, Beatrice was in a habitat she knew well.

_ I would rather be a predator than prey, Ange. _

Ange blinked at her. If the girl expected romance, her hopes would surely be dashed. Beatrice took her around the hips. She still wore the heavy breeches which padded her legs and made her thighs appear more generous than they actually were. The witch gripped her and dragged Ange into her lap. 

Ange only stared. 

“We’ll kiss again, Ange,” she said, giving a small nod of her head. “And we'll keep doing it until you’re through and finished.” .

“Mmnn, a-ah.” Ange cast her eyes to the witch’s lap, but because Beatrice's shift had slipped to reveal more of her creamy white breast, she grew bashful. Ange squeezed her eyes shut. Her lips were only a bit parted, just enough for Ange to wet them with her tongue.

Beatrice accepted the gesture as an invitation. She brought her forehead close to Ange's and rested it against her head. The hands which gripped the witch's shoulders trembled.

“Look at me,” Beatrice whispered. It wasn't so much a command as it was a gentle request. “Come, come, don't be afraid.”

She brought her lips to brush over Ange's.

They kissed for a long, slow time. Ange's mouth was dry and Beatrice, dehydrated, so her tongue became heavy against the girl’s teeth. It was unpleasant for the witch, but not unpleasant enough to spoil the delightfully small, soft noises she heard Ange sigh whenever their lips parted. The little Inquisitor was pliant in her arms, so Beatrice grew more bold as the moments passed.

She pressed her nose into the soft skin of Ange’s neck and the girl's knees came out from underneath her. She collapsed onto Beatrice's lap so that she embraced her, twitching and trembling. The witch had done nothing else but bite her. While she once would have drawn blood on a lover’s neck, Beatrice only ran her sharp teeth over Ange's most vulnerable of places. She nibbled and sucked, and Ange rewarded her with little whines. She was strung up on top of Beatrice like a bow and each time Beatrice let her skin go with a smack of her lips, she twitched back into place with a shivering  _ twang _ .

Well, not a  _ twang _ , but Beatrice thought the humming noises she made were awfully cute and served the purpose of the analogy.

_ You're too trusting, little girl. I could end you underneath my tongue.  _ She kissed the point of Ange's pulse, and dug her teeth in. _ I'll bite your throat out and tear it to shreds.  _

_ Such is the nature of a witch.  _

While Ange enjoyed the game they played, Beatrice imagined blood baths.  _ Gouge the neck and kill.  _ She bit Ange's jugular hard enough to hurt. Ange keened pathetically and twisted away. Her neck was a ruin of red and purple marks. 

Beatrice shushed her. “Ah, they’re only love bite.” She murmured. 

Ange was shaking. The witch could hear the Inquisitor panting against her ear, fighting for her breath. Beatrice wondered if she cried. Had the cried the first time…? She didn't know. She couldn't remember. 

She wrapped her arms around Ange, and held her close. 

A cloud passed over the moon, and they were lost in darkness. Beatrice heard and felt Ange move against her. She squirmed on the lap of the witch, fighting. For what, Beatrice did not know. She still held the little Inquisitor in her arms, and only let go when her wrist was seized with sudden roughness and led to the line of Ange's waist. 

Her lower belly was bare. Beatrice felt soft, thin hairs trailing down to her groin-- presumably a dark shade of scarlet. 

_ Ah, so that's the way of it. _

As she smoothed a hand over the girl’s pubic bone, moonlight struck her. Beatrice found herself staring into the face of the inquisitor. Ange’s cheeks glowed with hot chagrin, and the look in her eyes was nothing less than shameful. She straddled the lap of the witch, but she saw past Beatrice, and when the witch brushed her fingers against the apex of her thigh, her eyes fluttered. 

They did not fall shut-- so Beatrice had to close her own to save herself from Ange’s sea green, empty and wall-eyed stare. 

The witch hated mirrors. Looking at Ange while she rocked against the witch’s fingers made her stomach twist and turn. 

_ I should have known better than to question you. In your hell of six years, you’ve grown with great costs paid.  _

Beatrice held Ange. The girl was pressed against her bosom, and Beatrice felt her move. Ange was quiet. Beatrice heard her gasp and felt her shudder, and she realized it must be over. 

The girl let her head fall to Beatrice's shoulder.

_ Ange…  _ Beatrice ruffled Ange's hair with her hand. _ I pity you. I truly and deeply pity you.  _

* * *

The witch brought her fingers to her mouth. Without looking at them, she sucked Ange off of her skin. 

She tasted like salt and musk and iron-- was that blood? Beatrice swallowed. She made sure her hands were clean before she petted Ange's hair. 

Beatrice examined her nails in the moonlight. Her cuticles were torn. She thought she had picked them raw. It was an unconscious act, a nasty habit she picked up from Krauss’s woman long ago. With a bitter chuckle, Beatrice lay back. She was incredibly thirsty. Her head was beginning to pound.

Ange cried above her. 

“You’ll make a shitty inquisitor if you keep this up,” Beatrice said, gently. “Put on your brave face.”

Ange sniffled. It was a harsh, angry noise, and Beatrice felt spittle on her exposed skin. She was twisting in Beatrice's arms-- as if chasing away bad dreams or bad memories-- but she never threw away the witch’s embrace. 

Beatrice let out a shallow sigh.  _ I'm getting too old for this. _

The witch had known many children during her life times. She never had a particular interest in girls or boys, but brats seemed to find her wherever her procession wandered. 

The little witch she left in the Rokkenjima castle cried often, but her tears were easily washed away by the promise of sweets.  _ Put on your brave face. Even if your mother beats you and pulls your hair and curses you, put on your brave face for me, okaaaaay? _

Beatrice could offer no consolation besides empty nothings. She had once been a Golden and Endless witch, but as tragedy befell the once magnificent kingdom, her magic was reduced to a sum of zero. 

_ Happiness is a petty illusion. Once you learn that, you may say that you have lived for one thousand years.  _

Ange's sobs had grown quiet. She sniffled and trembled against Beatrice's bosom but made no noise save for the occasional whimper. 

_ Pain. You carry great pain. _

When a child reaches the end of the long, winding path in the woods, she can only find the witch if her knees are scraped up and bloodied. 

No one becomes a witch of their own choosing.

All magic is born from dead ends. 

Beatrice kissed Ange's head.  _ You're lost. _

_ Please don't follow my bread crumb trail. I'll only lead you to ruin.  _

_ Pain. All magic has brought me is pain. _

This was the true nature of witches.

“W-what are you humming?” Ange asked, suddenly.

Beatrice pressed her lips together. She hadn’t realized what she was doing.

Ange’s eyes were bloodshot. When she spoke to Beatrice, she caught phlegm in the back of her throat. She coughed into her arm and rolled away from the witch, curling into the grass. Beatrice was reminded of how thirsty she was. While Ange hacked up her lungs into the forest floor, she went to fetch their canteen. 

A string of drool and bile hung from the Inquisitor’s lip. The witch thought her human companion may need it more, so she offered the drink to Ange and watched, enviously, as the girl gulped it down. There were only a few sips for Beatrice to take-- and it would be a walk to return to the river-- so she made do and only drank enough to clear the taste of Ange’s sex from her mouth.  _ And blood _ , she reminded herself. Beatrice studied her torn up fingers, and tried to recall a time when her skin was soft and her nails well manicured. 

_ Come, try to remember what form you had-- before you were Kinzo’s prized possession-- the Witch.  _

Ange knelt beneath her. She was staring up at Beatrice bleary eyed. When she spoke, her voice was thick with congestion. “You were singing,” she said. “What song was it?”

Although she was barefoot-- and the was ground muddy-- Beatrice turned away from Ange. She staggered around the edge of their pathetic fireplace and found Ange’s bedroll tucked alongside her belongings. Her arrows toppled out of their quiver, but Beatrice’s migraine thundered in her skull, so she left them for morning. Ange was still sitting where she left her, and Beatrice offered her an empty smile. 

“It’s only a tune I picked up,” Beatrice answered. She unfurled Ange’s bedroll beside her own and laid it out so that the edges were touching. _ How romantic. A bed fit for queens.  _

“Oh.” Ange sniffled. It was difficult for Beatrice to look at her-- all the witch saw reflected in her green eyes was the portrait of another lost child, and it was nothing less than disturbing. “Is it a lullaby?”

“Something like that.” Beatrice took her lace kerchief and wetted it with pond water. Its white lace was stained with sweat, but she doubted her companion would have the nerve to be picky. She patted the bedroll beside hers, and when Ange followed her lead, she turned to dab it across the little Inquisitor’s face. 

“Mmmn… I was never very good at it.” Ange said. 

Beatrice wiped across Ange’s eyes. They were hot underneath the cloth, so Beatrice held the wet kerchief to her brow. “What? Singing?” Ange didn’t respond, so Beatrice let out a little laugh to fill in the awkward space left in the conversation. “No one is really bad at singing, they just don’t have the confidence to try.”

When Beatrice pulled away from Ange’s face, she didn’t take time to read her expression. Instead, the witch laid down in a heap, massaging her forehead. Her headache had not gone away, and she was tempted to take a sip of the stagnant pond water against the advice of the girl who now crouched at her side. 

She was surprised when Ange’s russet head touched her forearm, but not enough for her to respond save for the twitching of her lip. Ange laid against her chest with her face pressed into the crook of Beatrice’s neck, and the witch could do nothing but frown as Ange cuddled up to her. 

“I-Is this okay?” she asked. Her voice was so quiet. It was difficult for Beatrice not to sneer at her sudden display of weakness. This night would surely be a long one, and the witch was terribly, terribly tired. She wondered why Ange hadn’t collapsed into a heap by now. When the other Ushiromiya girls threw fits, they did so until they passed out from exhaustion. Beatrice didn’t know whether or not to respect her resilience-- or to curse it.

“It’s fine,” Beatrice answered. “Just hush up and try to get some rest.”

Ange threw an arm around her. Beatrice grit her teeth. 

_ Put on a brave face, Ange. Shove me away and spit in my eye. Call me a dumbass and a bitch and a whore.  _

Beatrice rolled over, and nudged Ange gently onto her side. If she were only being obedient or simply too tired to fight the whims of the witch, Beatrice did not know. She only knew that Ange accepted her arms and pushed her body back against Beatrice so that their position was more intimate than Beatrice wanted. It was stifling underneath the blanket-- even though it was so thin-- so Beatrice pushed the cover onto Ange. She figured the girl needed it more than her as even now she  _ snuggled _ up to the witch.

“Can you sing to me…?” Ange asked, pitifully. 

Beatrice found herself replying to the barely whispered request without so much as a second thought. “Yeah, Ange. I’ll sing to you.”

* * *

_ The golden prince played piano. The witch watched him, even though it tied her guts into a vicious tangle of knots. She remembered the feeling of Teacher running a brush through her hair, wet with water. The witch wondered if cream and a comb could unravel her matted, fucked up life, but in the Rokkenjima spire, the Beatrice that came before could offer her no consolation.  _

_ So, she watched that boy from the window and guessed what music he must be playing.  _

_ The witch had learned the harpsichord as a child. They say one never forgets muscle memory, but after a thousand years spent as an immortal, she could no longer recall the feeling of ivory keys against her fingers. Had she practiced her scales? No, she had been a monstrous little girl who whined whenever her mother sat her at the bench. The woman hit her knuckles with a golden batton when she misplaced her fat baby hands.  _

_ The boy never protested. His fingers were long and deft-- he struck the piano with gentle precision and smiled as he played. Watching him made her chest hurt. Seeing him made her sick.  _

_ The witch pressed her forehead to the glass and took turns staring at him and staring into her lap, overcome by the sudden urge to vomit.  _

_ Another time, another time when she had more courage, she would say... _

_ “Would you allow me to accompany you?” _

_ He blinked up at her. The boy was faithful. He never broke a promise, she was told. But the pain made her step out of line. The witch bet on a dumb wish he would step out of line too.  _

_ The boy wasn’t permitted to speak to her. It was a rule the witch agreed to, as hearing his sweet, slow voice felt akin to dragging a blade across her heart.  _

_ “You play?” he asked, and she shook her head.  _

_ “I sing.” The witch put on a wide, toothy grin. The prince had surely never seen her smile before, and she was frightened-- for a moment-- the expression would be lost on him.  _

_ But, the boy stared at her. There was a curious glint in his eye, and the look on his face made her golden heart thunder in her chest. The witch steadied her shaking legs to place a hand over her breast.  _

_ “Music is only magic of a different sort,” she said. “As the heir to the Ushiromiya name, you should know the value of a well rounded education.”  _

_ “I-I do!” He was eager. _

_ “Ah, I could make a pupil out of you.” The witch bowed, graciously. “To be owed the honor to play beside his excellency is too great for an aged woman like me.” _

_ He tittered.  _

_ The sound made her sick. _

_ The witch’s elaborate dress made her posture stiff against the piano bench. The boy had to scoot over to allow her room to sit, but he was overjoyed at the prospect of playing for an esteemed member of the court-- even if she were nothing more than a jester or a courtesan or a dumb, washed up old witch who now called herself furniture.  _

_ “Would you like to review the sheet music?” he asked. _

_ “Of course,” she answered, and he handed her a small, leather bound booklet. The witch flipped to a dog eared page of a foreign aria from an exotic land she had perhaps visited in her youth. The language played on the tip of her tongue-- as for the notes, they may as well have been scribbles.  _

_ “Ohoh! I’m quite familiar with this piece. If you would allow me to observe your progress…” _

_ The boy’s eyes went wide and he turned to the piano keys. He fixed his posture so that he sat straight backed. The prince took a slight, soft inhale of breath-- _

_ \-- and he began to play.  _

_ The sound drove a knife into her guts, agony like a wedge or stake which twisted and turned and snaked around her guts until her insides felt molten and her head pounded and hurt. _

_ He’s perfect. He really-- truly-- definitely-- is-- perfect.  _

_ “Milady.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “M-milady Beatrice are you okay?” _

_ “You look--” _

_ “-- as if you’re about to be sick.” _

* * *

Beatrice woke up with her face plastered to the grass by sticky bile. 

Her stomach gave another heave against the pain in her gut, and Beatrice emptied out the meager remains of her bread and cheese diner into the still-water pond. She retched with her hands finding purchase in the sandy shore and groaned through the strings of drool which dribbled down her face. Her dress was no doubt torn around her knees from her frantic scrambling, but Beatrice paid no mind. She was disgustingly ill and debased herself accordingly. 

Only Ange was there to bear witness. 

“I told you not to drink the pond water,” she spat. “Dumbass.”

Beatrice laughed. Even if her sides stung and her belly felt run through with a dozen, tiny knives, the witch laughed along to a hearty, genuine line of painful giggles. 

She was sick again when her mirth was over, but even as she threw up into the pond-- ruining the day for all the little tadpoles who resided there-- the witch couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re in awfully high spirits,” Ange said. “Even though you’re a crazy witch, I didn’t expect you to guzzle down that sludge.”

“Hey, are you listening?” Ange asked. “ We have to go soon, so suck it up and get dressed. You tore the dress I bought you, and it’s not like we have any more gold-- so get used to rags, Beatrice.”

The witch grinned at her. “I’m glad you're back, Ange.”

The little inquisitor stared at her for a long, agonizing while. Ange broke the tension between them by tossing a canteen roughly to Beatrice. The metal caught her in the ankle. Beatrice hissed, but the pain was negligible next to the feeling of her roiling stomach.

“I figured you could use something to drink,” Ange said. “If you can't hold water down, we’re going to have a problem.”

“O-oh.”

Ange shot a little scowl over her shoulder, catching Beatrice as she turned the canteen to her open mouth and gulped down a mouthful of water. The Inquisitor was about to turn away, but something held her back. She watched Beatrice, studying her as if she were a statue on display. 

“Hey, Beatrice,” she said. “That thing that happened last night… it was only because we're both desperate.”

Beatrice was to weary to speak, so she merely clutched the bed roll and nodded at her. 

“I don't really think it's worth talking about,” Ange went on. “But, if you have comments, questions, or concerns, by all means, speak up.”

The witch remained silent for the girl had already decided that their encounter meant nothing. If only Ange knew what trouble awaited her beyond the horizon-- when they finally reached the City of Books. There, perhaps the girl would realize the depth of her misplaced affections. 


End file.
